19 September 19 Twenty-six miles north of Yasuj and the Persian Gate, Bernie reached the top of a narrow ridge overlooking a remote and rugged valley beset with green scrub, the wind fresh and cold. He set up his wooden box instrument, a Synchronized Electromagnetic Wave Gradiometer, a specially modified instrument from MI6s engineering works. With the sensitive instrument set precisely, he searched in all directions for any land of unusual signal. Puffing in the 9200 ft. altitude, Bea led her mule alongside Bernies. Anything? He adjusted minute knobs and checked the battery connection. Nope. Just background noise. I thought I heard a blip of something, but… Bea took a sip of water and looked over the steep edge. Dont chance our luck only on that. Im not afraid of heights, but this spots a bit precarious. Wasnt before, but I am now, said Alice, twenty feet behind, gripping the safety rope. Bernie searched with his heavy, powerful binoculars, then packed up. Were done here. Lets make camp back down the way we came. God, its beautiful up here. Well, God can have it! cried Alice, shivering. A hard rain chilled them on the way down, the fierce wind unforgiving. The cruel storm then moved off as fast as it had arrived. Gwafa roasted the last of the salted goat over a hot fire. After having fed grain to the mules, Bea chewed her dinner, still cold from the rain. Camping, trekking, searching, Ive been eating so much goat Im growing fur. Do not complain. Meat is meat. We are lucky to have some, scolded Gwafa, slicing with his knife. Praise be to Allah for the bounty of nature. All we have left are dried beans and two cans of the sweet Italian cherries, courtesy of Rommel and his nemesis General Gariboldi.